Beyond the Window
by morgianesff
Summary: My life has become a never ending series of counting the days. Today is number one hundred and sixty-eight. Today they tell me I can stop counting. They sent an American soldier to tell us not to worry, that we were finally getting our home back. He told us we were getting a pub. Tomorrow is day one hundred and sixty-nine. Doyle/OC
1. Chapter 1

I started another story for you amazing people. This one is a Renner fiction (or at least an incarnation of him). It is based of an idea that myself and a friend played around with a while ago.

I don't own Doyle, or the man who played him (sob). I don't own 28 weeks later, or 28 days later which will be mentioned in here.

I do however own Cassandra.

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2 days. 3 days. 8 days. 10 days. 15 days. 32 days. 65 days. 93 days. My life has become a never ending series of counting the days. Today is number one hundred and sixty-eight. Today they tell me I can stop counting. They sent an American soldier to tell us not to worry, that we were finally getting our home back. He told us we were getting a pub. _Tomorrow is day one hundred and sixty-nine._

Day One: They said there were riots in Cambridge. It was one of those things you saw on the news, and felt upset about, but then you went to the store for grocery's like it was nothing. You went on with your life because it wasn't happening here, and it didn't really effect you.

Day Two: It affected me now. Cambridge was thirty hours away by foot, but in less then a day it reached Louth. The 'rioters' were in the streets, they had reached my town. We knew. Those who saw them knew. This was something different. There was something wrong with these people, something the news wasn't telling us. Something very wrong.

Day Three: 'It' was in my house. 'It' was now 'Sarah'. Sarah Ferguson, my friend since we were both school girls at Cordeaux. We lived together, sharing the bills. I was teaching her how to dance. I beat her head in with a blender.

The 448. That was our salvation now. People were fleeing their homes, trying to catch the bus to Kings Cross, only now every bus was going there, every car, and even every bicycle. People were running. We were running from our neighbors, people we grew up with and loved, because they were trying to eat us.

They were catching cars, these people. They swarmed over highways, right into traffic! Even when they were being run over they didn't stop! They just kept grabbing at cars and buses until the vehicles were so overwhelmed they crashed, or couldn't move. They ripped them apart like paper, the cars, and the people in them.

Day Eight: They gave it a name. Epidemic. They made it worse. People knew it was bad, they knew it was horrible even. But every one of us was holding on to this idea of hope. Maybe it was only bad where we were. The announcement from the Prime Minister that this was an epidemic, and that we were now under martial law ripped that from us. Now there were real riots.

London was supposed to be safe, it was supposed to be a sanctuary. Now it was just as bad is the places we left. It only got worse when we heard that the infection had overrun Kings Cross.

People were panicking. They had family out there, they would be coming, heading right into a mob of the infected and they wouldn't even know it.

Communication was falling apart. One by one cities could no longer be reached. They just went quiet. The local news wasn't broadcast, the radios only played static. It was the same with the phones, they would ring and ring forever, if they rang at all.

People were leaving the country, or trying. Heathrow Airport is one of the biggest airports in the world and it couldn't keep up. There were too many people trying to get out, and not enough planes to carry them. Every inch of the airport was filled with people. Were weren't just sleeping there anymore, we were living there. Every single person, just waiting and hoping that they got lucky and got a ticket.

Day Ten: They said the infected had breached the military barriers around the city. They were in London now. London was the city that was supposed to be safe. I stopped believing in that word when I heard that they had taken Paddington Station. This wasn't a riot or a disease to me anymore, we were in the middle of a war.

London was falling, but there was nothing sweet and childlike about it. It fell with screams, and with blood.

People were trying to escape any way they could. I was no exception, I didn't want to stay to watch London die, I didn't want to die with her. I left with five people I never met in my life. Rachel, Bob, Sally, Micheal, and a little boy named Thomas. They had room in their van. They were going to Liverpool, they said they heard there were still boats that would take us to Ireland.

Day Fifteen: We reached Liverpool, but the talk of a boat was wasn't true. The military was sinking those that tried to cross. They said even a plane had been shot down while trying to leave the country. It had been shot down by us! Our own military had fired on a plane full of civilians! They weren't letting us leave any more. Britain was now being quarantined.

Day Eighteen: Manchester was burning.

Day Thirty Two: The infected found us. They tore their way into our shelter. They killed everyone. I was alone.

Day Sixty Five: I killed a little boy, I gouged out his pretty green eyes.

Day Ninety Three: I met a man with a gun, he was in uniform. He was not alone. He told me I was 'safe'. I don't believe in safe.

_Tomorrow is day one hundred and sixty-nine._

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Okay, there is chapter one. I hope it was a good introduction, gives you an idea of what the character Cassandra is like.

Oh yeah! thanks to my beta (took forever to get one of those, no one wanted to help me), KevlarKitten, for her help.

Well, you know the drill from here. Please leave a review.


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, you know the drill here. I tell you that own absolutely nothing except the things running laps in my head and some big someone somewhere doesn't sue me. I like not being sued. So... I don't own the 28 days/ weeks later series. The woman known as Cassandra though, I do own her.

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They put us on a bus, a bus. The paint on it is fresh and crisp, and its all a lie. It looks innocent and safe, but I know people died on this bus. I can see it in the small dents on it's side and the lack of letters. They found this bus somewhere in the ruins of one of our cities and fixed it up just for this purpose.

_I feel liked canned fish._ They shoved us one by one into a metal can until no more could fit and then they closed the doors. I spent sixty one days alone, thinking of all the situations I should avoid so I would stay alive. This situation, being trapped in a small space with so many people I can't move without touching them, is one of those situations.

I took a seat. I wasn't polite about it either. I pushed my way to one and put my body into it before anyone could stop me. I don't care if they like me or not because of it. I was not going to stand in the aisles with them bumping into me on all sides.

I am aware that if somehow the infection did get on this bus I would be no safer sitting then those standing. It would kill us all before any of us could escape. I stopped being delusional about things like that a long time ago. I know myself better now, that's why I made sure I got a seat.

If I had to stand for the trip I would end up punching someone. I don't want to do that. It isn't because it would upset the other passengers or even the one I might hit. Its because of the armed men with us on the bus.

They have been very clear on their policy regarding violence. They don't have one, because as far as they are concerned there will 'not' be any violence. Not unless you want to experience some for yourself, and if they have to use force it might be deadly.

That at least is a policy I can respect. If they let me I would even enforce it. The smartest decision they have made so far is not letting me do that. I would have killed one of these people by now, I'm sure of it. It isn't because I hate them. Truth be told I don't care enough about any of them to warrant such a strong emotion as hate. Its because I am still there.

I'm still waiting for 'them'. _I don't believe in safe. I prefer prepared._ That has been the mindset I have chosen to live in for the past seventy six days and more. I have been 'safe' for seventy six days, under the protection of the United States Army. I know they will fight to protect us, just like I know they'll kill us too if they have too. _Our own were killing us, why shouldn't they?_ I would rather be prepared than surprised again.

This trip is almost over. I have been counting down the minutes ever since I accepted I would have to be in this can. Three hours and forty two minutes have passed of what they told us might be close to a four hour trip.

I can tell even without the watch. The road signs have been slowly counting down as well. Our destination is less then 13 miles away now. _London._ That thought was a mistake, not that I could have kept it from slipping into my mind forever. The Americans say it is safe now, that they have created a place free of infection for us._They didn't see it fall._

_They weren't there._ Thinking words like that you might think I hate the Americans because of it. That is not true. I'm jealous of them. They got to continue watching it on the news, then leaving to continue with their day. They were lucky enough not to be the country it destroyed.

My eyes don't see the world passing us by anymore. They see gray, the gray plastic of the seat in front of me. That's all I want to look at now. I already had the misfortune of seeing the city dying, I don't want to look at it's corpse too. London isn't even my city, it never was.

They announced it, as pointless as that was. The soldier in the front got on the intercom and told us that we had entered London. He didn't need to do that, every single person on the bus had already been counting down the miles.

There is an odd tension in the air, its been there sense the engine turned over and the wheels started to roll. People are exited, London is ours again. London is more then a city, its our capital, its our heart. Having it back is a huge sign of hope, even if its only a small part of London. But at the same time, we know that what we see isn't going to be London anymore. Its going to be empty, and hollow. A building is a building, and a ruin is a ruin, no matter how much we love it our 'heart' died.

We are supposed to bring it back to life. That is the reason the Americans have brought us here. We're supposed to be the first drops of blood in a dried up husk. Its our job to start restoring life to England. They want us to be this shining example of human perseverance and endurance to the rest of the world. _I just want to get off this bus._

Its odd then, having that wish that I choose to remain seated, almost not willing to get up even as the last person steps out the door. My feet seem to make the decision for me, putting my weight on them and moving without anything that resembles a conscious decision.

I almost wish I had just stayed on the bus. I'm greeted with a gun. Well, truthfully I am not really but that is how my mind perceives it. The gun isn't even being held technically. Its slung over the shoulder of the soldier who greets me. He is young, somewhere in the mid twenty's with red hair and a soft smile. He says to me"Welcome home miss" I tell him this isn't my home. His soft smile falters.

I haven't even made it into a building yet and already I am in a corridor of guns. They have set up a row of tents, each one a processing center to clear us once more before we actually are allowed into this 'district 1'. they are directing us to different lines, dividing us up by our genders and ages.

Everyone is nervous. Some of the people even looked scared. They have come all this way, but if they don't pass this exam they will not be allowed to stay, they will be sent back to the refugee camps.

That's why the guns are here. The Americans are not stupid. They know the situation this could create. They are here to take down anyone stupid enough to loose themselves to their emotions and become violent. They will not let the situation develop into chaos. _Our own people shot us, why shouldn't they?_

They are our allies, they are here for us. They are here to help us. _But we're not their people._ I wouldn't blame them if they did shoot us. I'd shoot too. I would put a bullet in the person's head long before they even had a chance to get near me.

I know thoughts like that are not normal to have, or at least they are not supposed to be. It doesn't change the fact that I have them. I was alone for over two months trying not to die or be killed. That was my life for sixty days. Move, find food, find shelter, stay warm, kill everything. I never really left that behind. _They gave that a name too._

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It is what the counselor at Menwith Hill diagnosed me with. She said it would pass, that no one would think any less of me for being traumatized after what happened. I asked her how many people she had to beat to death to be alive today. She gave me a prescription.

If I am upset about anything it is that. I don't like that these soldiers act like they understand. I know they are trained and that most of them have seen combat and probably killed people. But they did it with guns, they did it from a distance and they didn't know these people. _They didn't love them._

This time I see black. Closing my eyes I take a moment and a deep breath to calm myself down. This isn't the time or place for this. I don't have the right or privilege to lose myself now, not in this crowd of people and guns.

30-35 female. That is my destination, the line leading into that tent. That's what I commit my focus to now, getting through this crowd without incident and into that line. Thankfully that is actually rather easy.

The soldiers are directing people based on the large ID cards printed with each persons age and name. The number is the bigger of the two things on there, which allows them to direct you where you need to go with just a glance.

It doesn't take me long to find myself in the line, and actually once I am in it I find a sort of comfort there. We all know what we aren't meant to do in this line and one by one we shift forward between the metal bars, moving a little closer to the white tent that is our destination. We are all praying that they let us in. I won't lie, I am as well.

"Cassandra Bell?" The voice that finally says my name belongs to a small brunette soldier sitting at a desk outside the tent. They have her at a small desk, her job to keep track of who has arrived and who has yet to be examined. She is also there to comfort us.

She has no gun visible on her, though I would not be surprised to find she has a pistol or a knife somewhere. They also have her dressed in a less military manner. She is wearing an olive jumpsuit and even has her hair down to frame the brown eyes that are looking at me.

"Yes." As soon as I reply her eyes drift back to the screen of her laptop and her fingers dance across the key board. "Last official residence in Louth civil parish?" Again I give her another yes and her hands start dancing once more.

"Child of Margaret Hewlett and Jonathan Bell, sibling of..." This time my tone is snappish, even with the armed soldiers around me. "I said yes."

She looks a little taken a back, but not surprised. her hand comes up quickly, waving the tension from the soldier behind her, understanding my tone and what is behind it. "Its alright." She tells him over her shoulder, sharing a few seconds looking into his eyes before he returns to his calm position again, deciding my bad mood is not actually a threat.

She doesn't apologize, at least not really. She only says to me "Standard procedure miss." Its a response I can respect and even appreciate. I'm so tired of people telling me they are sorry.

I find myself again growing nervous as she continues speaking. "Third station on the left. They are ready for you." _Something normal, that's all I want._

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Like usual review are always welcome, and I will have pictures up at the Photobucket. The link is on the profile page, I don't know why it is just text, the other one actually works. Copying and pasting it into your address bar will get you there too though.


	3. Chapter 3

I apologize for the exceptionally long wait, but I am now working on this story again, since the obstacle preventing my is out of the way. Anyways. I do not own the 28 days/weeks later series.

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_It still smells new. The room still smells new. _They stuck things in my mouth, my ears and my veins, for this. They looked in my eyes, for this. They made me take off my clothes and put my legs up, for this. A room that still smells of paint and cut wood.

_It's worth it._

There is a small round table in front of me, with two tan chairs padded by gray cushions. This is going to be where I eat my meals, like a normal human being. It's where I set the things they gave me for now instead.

A district one ID card. It has a small little symbol in red representing the area we are in. a signal stylized skyscraper in white, with the curve of the river also in that shade, set on a circle of red. I wonder if they choose that color deliberately, or if they really didn't consider that red might not be appropriate for city that bled to death.

I hate the ID card already, just because of that little symbol. I hate it because it lists my nationality as British. I never hated that before, but now it makes me feel as if I am some sort of separate species, like something that might become extinct. I hate the have my name printed on the back above an occupation.

I had to pick one. I choose to work in the laundry room. I chose it in the hopes it would limit how much I had to interact with these people. From how I understand it the laundry would be delivered in bags marked with the specific rooms number, and a tag to hang on the washer and dryer to keep track of it. When it would be finished it would be put back in the bag and returned not them, by people who were not me. That would be the job of the mail carriers.

The welcome packet they gave us as well joins that thing on the table. A 'welcome you home' pamphlet offering information and advice about settling into district one. A map of the district and a satellite photo with information about future repatriation districts as well as a copy of my repatriation case information.

I just don't care about any of that. I care about cupboards, and a stove, and sink. I care about a throw rug and the couch on it. I care about a desk with a lamp and a phone. I care about a bedroom I can't see yet, and a bathroom too. It's all so stupid, I shouldn't care about these things, but they are all so unnecessary, but I never thought I'd have this again. _This is mine._

And now a door is opening. It's not the door behind me though, it's the door that must be to the bedroom. It's a detail I forgot for a second in my moment of appreciation. They said I would have a room mate. They said I would share a room with one H. Baker. They didn't mention it was going to be a man.

He is a Caucasian male, that just by guessing I would put in his forties. His height and his weight respectively seem to be at a glance around five foot eight and 140 lbs. Having an American born roommate in my old life is rubbing off in my estimations. He has a long rectangular sort of face with thick black brows over his brown eyes and a head of black curls. He also has a broad smile and a hand outstretched to me.

"My apologies, I didn't hear you come in. My name is Howard Baker." I hear those words and register them, but I don't respond. Instead, I am just looking at that hand, long enough that it makes the moment a bit uncomfortable as I continue not to take it. "I don't shake hands. Don't take it personally." That last part I add only because it seems I will be living in this apartment with him and I might as well make it not as uncomfortable as it looks like it will be.

When they said I would have a roommate I didn't give it much thought. It was just another piece of knowledge that got filtered through my ears, but didn't register as important at the time. If I had an opinion on who it would be I thought that 'H. Baker' was going to be a woman. It is not uncommon for women from the UK to have names that start with that letter after all.

His response to that is to let his outstretched hand droop visibly and a look of awkward confusion to overtake his expression. It's not very different from what I imagined his response would be.

People have come to generally see me as a rude and disrespectful individual, in a more polite way of speaking that is. Those I seem to offend enough beyond the use of polite words seem to all be in agreement that I am simply a bitch. That they choose to think this way of me matters very little.

"I? Uhm? Well okay then..." He seems to be trying to salvage this introduction in a sort of awkward manner, apparently feeling it is necessary despite the fact I obviously do not. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you. Cassandra... Bell was it?"

"Yes..." My response is a quick, but very neutral one as confirm for him what in fact my name is. While I am doing this though I am also waking towards him. But it's clear by his expression it will not be for what he wants. "...they said they would have clothes for me?"

While he seems to have thought words other than those were going to come out of my mouth he doesn't remain surprised by them long. "Oh yes!" Understanding what I want he moves out of the way even while he continues speaking as I move past him into the bedroom.

"The box is waiting for you on the bed..." I notice the fact that he said 'the bed' the same time my eyes take in the fact that there is only one bed in this room. A suspicious thought is now forming in my head, this little fact like the sprouting of a seed. I have a man for a room mate, there is only one bed.

I let it go for now. The very real prospect of clothes out weighs the only potential prospects of my suspicion.

Beyond my roommate and the doorway I find the bedroom to be nicely furnished even if it might be considered sparsely so. There is an entertainment center with a TV to my right and two tall closets flanking it on either side. The bed itself is set across from that with a night stand on either side as with as a small table lamp.

"If the sizes are wrong you can trade it in at the commerce center on the main floor, ..." I let my ears vaguely listen to him while I open the card board box and remove the thank you letter that is doubling as a list of the contents within. The first item I lift out is a green tee-shirt. "...a lot of those from the refugee camps have had to do that it seems."

"...and if you need anything else, purchases can be made with your ID card." The next item is a pair of sweater pants. There is no underwear in this box, but for now I will make do with what I have.

"It is very nice to meet you miss... they didn't have a picture of you, but I wasn't expecting them to assign me such a lovely partner." _Suspicions were always something I did not enjoy because usually my suspicions are correct._

Turning around now that I have a pile of clothes in my hand I find my eyes on him again. Seeing my attention return to his I watch him perk up a little, offering me another congenial smile. Just like the soldier I watch his smile falter a little. "Is there a shower in there?"

"Uhm? Yes?" While his responses may be awkward and unsure mine are rather straight forward and to the point. "Good. If you need to use the loo I recommend the sink." I tell him as I step into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I'm not leaving this room until morning. They informed me of a curfew, so my complaint will have to wait until then.

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There is the long awaited chapter 3. I should have the next one up soon in short order.


	4. Chapter 4

Wow, so I am clearly guilty of high levels of neglect over here. I said I would update this more often, but it still got back burnered by the roll I had going on my other story. Anyways, I do not own anything of the 28 days later franchise, now on to the reading you were so patient for.

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Sleeping in a bath tub with my rolled up hoodie to substitute one of the soft pillows I saw on that bed, and a large bath towel to substitute those soft looking blankets may not have been how I would have preferred to spend my first night back in 'civilization' but it was how I made the choice to do it anyways.

I had the suspicion of it when I saw my roommate was a man. His attempt at a compliment only confirmed it. It wasn't as much of a surprise as one might think.

I was made aware, as was every other woman who has had the privilege of being allowed into district one so far, exactly what was expected of me. We all were.

Our job is to repopulate the city, but also the country. They want us to have children. That is why one of the final exams to grant us citizenship in this new city was a gynecological exam. If we were not deemed fit to bear children we would have never left the refugee camps.

I passed, but I am a single women. That is why they seem to have assigned me a partner. It is also why I am upset.

While those fortunate enough to find a partner of their own and be deemed capable of bearing children did not have to worry about this problem. Even more fortunate were those whose partners survived the infection and were cleared to come here together.

For those without partners, whether they be male or female, they would have suitable partners provided to them. A rather nice way to say they would be forced into an arranged marriage.

We woman as a whole are not pleased about this, and quite a few made a fuss. But as situations go, it was also not very surprising they relented to it as well. When one is faced with a situation like this, no matter how vile it may seem, you can either rebel against it and hope that eventually you may see the changes you wish, or you can surrender to it. The chance to not have to struggle and scrape by in a crowded flighty camp after spending nearly nine months trying to survive was enough to convince many woman to except this distasteful reality for the time being.

They did make one concession though to appease us, and likely the rest of the world at the same time, since I am sure many woman's rights groups are up in arms about this. We are supposed to be given a period of time within which to find a partner in the population of the district on our own.

That is my complaint and will be my mission today. It is why I choose to sleep in a locked bathroom all night. It is why I stubbornly ignored the pleadings of a man on the other side of the door as he tried to reason with me to come out of the bathroom.

It was nothing personal against this Howard. Despite my lack of utter attraction for him, or his awkward unsure almost shy and insecure manner I had nothing against the man. I can even see him having the potential to be a very kind and considerate husband to a woman. It is not personal at all, it is just not my choice.

Everything has been beyond my control for so long. This is one thing I will not allow to be, not if I can help it.

The outbreak of infection robbed me, and everyone, of any semblance of normalcy. We were forced into a situation that required us to abandon our lives and our ideals. To save our own lives we were killing those we loved as often as we were killing friends, acquaintances, or complete strangers.

It wasn't until I moved that my back decided to inform me just how much it doesn't appreciate sleeping in a tub. It involved a lot of popping sounds and stiff muscles. It was also uncomfortable enough to inspire me to take yet another hot shower, not that I needed much urging.

As much as I have come to view things like this as unnecessary luxuries, they are still luxuries.

Stepping out of the bathtub I feel the cool press of the tile floor against my bare feet, but hardly give it any mind. My first destination is the bathroom sink, my plans for it involve getting rid of the dry chalky state of my mouth.

I don't bother with temperature, I just grab the closest handle and turn it, letting a strong stream pour out of the faucet and into my waiting hand. The first couple hand fulls are drank but when the water starts to get warm, revealing that I turned on the hot water, I use the next to splash in my face before I finally turn it off.

Following that my hands go back to the edge of the basin, but my eyes go to the mirror in front of me.

I look tired. Not just because I slept in a tub, I just look tired. I have had few chances since this all started to look in a mirror, and little desire too. I can even say that part of it is because I might have been afraid at what I would see.

I'm not sure exactly why, since I can't pinpoint any detail, but I look different than the memory I have of myself. My eyes are still that sort of aquatic shade of green, the kind that in certain light looks more gray or even blue. There aren't bags under them or dark circles.

My skin looks fresh from my shower the night before. The time I spent by myself left a visible tan to my flesh, the freckles decorating my skin in a light splattering.

Even my hair doesn't show any signs of the tired state I am in. the strands not dull or full of split ends, but still glossy and clean from a haircut I received before being sent here.

No, the only thing I can identify about why I look tired isn't anything physical that I can see, it's just the expression in my eyes. A hollow sort of resigned look so at odds with the smiling vibrant woman I remember being.

What I did, what I used to be, was all about life and expression. It was about expressing the passion of living. I see so little of that now.

I'm done looking in the mirror.

My hands leave the cool slick edges of the metal basin, and my entire body follows after them, turning now to walk toward the shower even while I slip my shirt over my head, exposing my naked chest as it falls forgotten to the floor.

It's joined soon by my underwear and bra, those pulled off the top of the shower door where I left them to dry last night after I washed them during my first shower. That they or myself were washed in what was obviously a man's body-wash means nothing to me.

The sweat pants almost fall off me after I loosen the drawstring, but that too doesn't matter. They are kicked aside to join the rest of the clothes while I step into the shower stall and close the fogged glass door behind me.

The blast out of the pipes is only cold for a second but I make no move to avoid its frigid teeth against my skin. The bite of some cold water is a bite I have no cause to worry over. It transforms quick enough anyways, turning into water hot enough to steam.

I let it scald my skin a shade of pink, my only reaction being an almost pleased hiss as it rolls over my back. I'm not even washing this time, I just have my hands resting against the shower wall with the water cascading over my back and my head hung, forming a curtain of damp dripping hair.

I'm not sure how many minutes, or maybe even hours passed like that. I just remained there letting the hot water roll over my skin and the sore muscles beneath it. Eventually, I just got tired of it and decided it was time to get out at last. Even though my body leaves the shower I can still feel the heat in my skin, a sign that I may have had it too hot for too long.

Even the soles of my feet don't notice the cold of the tile beneath them anymore when they land on them. Yet another sign, one that I ignore.

My treatment of my skin with the towel is acted out with just as little concern. Now that I have finished my shower all I want to do is find the official I need to talk to so I can change my situation.

Finishing the task of rubbing my skin almost raw as I dry it, I flip the towel back over the door to the shower before I snatch up my underwear and hastily put them back one, as well as the wrinkled, but still clan tee-shirt I slept in.

There is a small pause when I realize I put it on inside out, but then I disregard it as something not important enough to correct. I just continue, slipping on the sweatpants followed shortly by my socks and tennis shoes.

I'm less in a hurry with how I open the door then I had been while getting dressed however. It took him at least an hour or more before he gave up on the idea that he could get me out of the bathroom, and since I woke I haven't heard anything from him. The fact is though that this room is right next to the bedroom. I have very little doubt he heard me moving around and taking another shower.

My suspicion is yet again correct. He is awake when I open the door, and sitting on the edge of the bed looking at me.

I hold his gaze long enough to feel the need to blink, then turn for the door out of the bedroom, not even saying a word.

He however feels more obligated to speak than I do. "Wait, please..." He tries to reason with me once again, saying many of the same things he said before. "...can't we just talk about this?" This time I actually reply, not out of concern for his feelings but because he seems to need to hear it said.

"No."

I intended that to be the end of the discussion, but as is often the case with people, my intentions are not the same as the other party's. He isn't done. In fact, he is still determined enough to have this conversation that he does something that might even be considered foolish.

He cuts in front of me, and takes up my ID card I left on the table. The very thing I had been reaching for.

One of the rules set in this district one that was made very clear is this. You need that card. You are supposed to carry it with you everywhere you go so they can identify you. It is needed to go to and from anywhere in this settlement. Not having it will result in a strict penalty.

"Please..." That's why he took it, to keep me in this room. "...let's just talk. I know this is probably a difficult situation for you to accept. I'm sorry about that. But it will be for the best if we just work it out. I may not be what you expected, but it's how things are now. Let's work this out, it's for your own good too..." _As if that threat is enough to stop me. _"...you understand that, right?"

"Yes." That is the answer I give him verbally. I do understand that. It is also quite expectantly the answer he wanted, I can see it in his change of expression. The once concerned look changes to a happy own. "Thank you. I know I may not be the greatest catch but..." Then it shifts to confused. "What are you doing?!"

My hand stops on the door handle, and I turn to look over my shoulder at him. "Going out." Is the only answer I give him. I will probably be arrested and spend a little time in the detention center for leaving my room without my ID, but I don't really care.

He states as much is I am already aware of. "But they will detain you!". I merely shrug. "I know."

For a moment all either of us do is look at each other, waiting for whatever comes next to prompt the events of the future. His happens first.

His shoulder droop in defeat. "I can't do anything to change your mind can I?" I don't say anything this time, having never really been a person in the habit of repeating myself, especially when the question is obviously a rhetorical one.

His hand comes back up this time, the plastic rectangle swaying on the end of the lanyard. "I would have been good to you, you know." I don't smile when I say it, my face just neutral. "You'll be good to someone else." Then I take the ID and step out of the doorway.

* * *

I will TRY to not be so absent with this from now on, my apologies again.


	5. Chapter 5

Woohoo! look at that! I updated, sooner then a month or more, lol. Anyways, is per the usual, I do not own the 28 days/weeks series in any way, shape, or form. Now on to the reading.

* * *

The office of Procreation Control, as they called it on the pamphlet they gave us, was over stating things. This wasn't an office.

It was a desk. In a room with several other desks. Being limited on space as they were since they turned much of these buildings into housing, they put every office related to family services in this one section.

With that said standing between the section that deals with updating families on the status of their loved ones, as well as where you go to get permission for out of area phone calls was awkward.

I don't care about the strange looks I got from either side of me when I answer the woman's obligatory question of 'how can I help you?'. I'm not here to care about what others think of me, I'm just here for myself. "I want a divorce."

Even the somewhat shocked chuckle that leaves the soldier using the phone doesn't distract me, I barely even turn to look at him or his head of short brown hair. My attention is still on the woman at the desk, who at the moment is so surprised by my demanding tone she has stopped typing.

"Uh..." Her shock doesn't last long, but when she speaks it's clear she made the wrong assumption. "...Miss, if you're in a situation of spousal abuse this is not the area that we deal with it, but I can direct you..."

I don't let her finish because it isn't necessary. "He hasn't hit me, and he isn't my SPOUSE." I say, right to the point. Hearing that this isn't the issue she this time does the smarter thing and instead of assuming, waits for me to tell her myself. "You assigned me to him and put us in a room."

"Ah..." The way she says that is almost condescending, as is the way her eyes seem to lose all interest in my compliant. "...I see." It is almost annoying enough that I want to do something about it, but the presence of military in and outside of the room changes my mind. "The names please?"

"Baker, Howard." I tell her, waiting for her to type his in, then when her hands stop moving I tell her mine. "Bell, Cassandra." Then they began dancing over the keys again.

I'm even more frustrated when she finally does give me an answer, the time I am kept waiting almost too long. "I see. This is the situation miss." She pauses to make sure she has my attention, as if it would be somewhere else.

"Apparently Mister Baker put in for a roommate. It seems when he came in someone miss counted and allowed an odd number in. That is why you were assigned to his room. You are listed as single."

"I am aware of what I am listed as." I tell her, keeping my tone as calm as I can despite the words themselves being ones of annoyance. "That doesn't mean I am shacking up with that mop headed soccer player you roomed me with."

"I see..." _That is really getting annoying. _I'm beginning to wonder if she can say anything else besides that. "Well if you really want to..."

I interrupt her before she can say what I know she is going to say, the only other sound accompanying my reply is the sound of the door closing. "Yes, I really want to." I don't care what I need to do.

* * *

I almost paused after hearing that, hearing what this lady was willing to bargain just to not have to hook up with what ever poor bastard she has dubbed a _mop headed soccer player_. It sounded interesting, but not interesting enough for me to be late reaching my post.

This has got to be one of the most boring assignments I have ever had. I am sure it is even more of a dull experience since I am a sniper.

At least when I got here I had the chance to do something, even it if was only supervising a clean up crew while we were getting the city ready for refugees.

Ever since we set up a perimeter I have been up on the roofs, doing nothing, but sitting in the sun for hours on end, listening to pigeons.

This was definitely not anything I ever imagined I would be doing when I joined the army. I understand it is a good cause, but it is so boring. A mall cop could do my job, and do it just as well. I am more than over qualified for this job, or any here really.

But it is still my job, and I am still going to do it.

At the very least I have the banter I know will cross over the radios to keep me entertained well I am up there. And maybe I might even mention the story of the divorcee, adding it into the mix of whatever the guys saw that can pass for amusing.

Or maybe I'll just bust Flynn's chops about his wife some more. That always at least gives me a moment of amusement, and the other guys too.

Yeah we will go with that one. No need talking about a woman with the guys. They will only degrade it into something it isn't, and I don't feel like letting a woman I don't even know get dragged through the mud with the soldiers' gossip. I'll keep this one to myself.

After I get off duty I might head down to the pub too, just for a drink before I go to bed. I might even be able to get Flynn to buy me a round. Tell him I want to toast his marriage or something. _Yeah, that probably won't work. Worth a shot though._

With those possibilities still running through my mind I swipe my pass over the reader and head up the restricted staircase to my post on the roof, to pass the next half a dozen hours bored out of my mind.

* * *

So there was a small taste of Renner, yes, that was Doyle if it wasn't clear. Not a real meeting, but something none the less. I hope he was in character enough is at the time I was multitasking two stories, but anyways leave a review.

oh, also forgot to put up Cassie's picture last time, its up now.


	6. Chapter 6

I still claim no possession of or to the 28 days/weeks later series, with that said I own Cassandra. Now on to the reading part.

* * *

_What have I done_? Even as a thought, it is a rhetorical question. I know what I did. I got my way. I succeeded in getting what I wanted, and now I have to suffer through my victory.

I have five days.

Five days to find someone who is willing to partner with me, and I am willing to accept. Five days to find and transfer my living arrangements, until then I must continue to share an apartment with Howard. Five days to find someone who can put up with me.

I'm doomed, I know it. There just going to end up sending me back to the camp, and it's my own fault. But I'm not going back on this decision, I can't.

I made it myself, because I know myself. I couldn't stay with that man, Howard baker, because I might hurt him. If I did they would only end up sending me back anyways.

I wouldn't mean to, but it would happen. He would do something wrong, I would react before I could think about it, and I would hurt him. It could be something simple, like touching me when I wasn't expecting it, or waking me up from a nightmare because he was worried. I wouldn't have time to stop myself, I would just react.

I was alone to long, and its changed me into something else. I probably shouldn't even be here, among these normal and civilized people. I'm like a feral cat. I was domesticated once, but then I was in the wild, and for too long. Now tame is only a memory, a thing I used to be.

As much as I would never want to return to that, running from 'them' was easier. I didn't need to think about it, I 'knew' mentally and instinctively what I needed to do. It was just simple. My body knew what to do. My hands gripped, my arms swung, and my legs ran. I could just 'do', I didn't have to think.

There was no thought, I didn't need to think, I only needed to react.

Now I have to think all the time. I have to think, so I don't react. I'm stuck in a pattern of every touch is a danger, a threat, and I have to keep reminding myself, that their eyes aren't red, their words aren't growls and screams, and their hands aren't dangerous. Its exhausting.

This is what I wanted, but they never should have sent me here. I'm not ready to be this again, normal and human.

I'm not going to find someone who can handle this, even if I find someone to like me. They'll do something wrong, one of these people. Most of them, if not all, didn't go through what I did. Some of them even weren't in the country. They were flown back in from Europe, where they were vacationing or visiting people they knew.

Out of every one here, the survivors of the outbreak, those of us who were here and lived through it, were the smallest percentage. The Americans have been looking for us, and are still looking for more, but its a small number, and a scattered group at best, because 'they' were that effective in annihilating us.

Most of the survivors they do find, they find like they found me. There wild, scared, and not able to recognize that the person before them is a person.

I tried to attack. I didn't see a soldier. The uniform meant nothing to me. I'd killed them, people that weren't people anymore and were wearing uniforms. So seeing them in military dress didn't mean a thing.

Seeing them in a group didn't mean anything either. The infected traveled together, like some sort of pack. They followed each other around, taking advantage of the chaos that another one might create. One infected stirring up the nest and scattering prey for the rest.

Even the fact that I didn't see them covered in blood didn't mean much. It was raining; I just assumed the blood washed off.

I only knew they were following me. I was being hunted. When I couldn't run anymore, I stopped, and my flight turned to fight. If I couldn't escape them I would kill them. It was that simple to do. All things are threats and all threats must die.

I had a heavy broken table leg that I had been using is a club, and when the first soldier came around the corner into the room I had went into with the intention of hiding, and trapped myself in, I swung.

I had every intention of beating this man skull in, because I didn't see a man, only a thing in the shape of a man. I might have succeeded to, if the wood hadn't suddenly exploded into splinters from a bullet, and the force wrenched my arm back, making me stumble off balance.

They had restrained me; it took a long time to calm me down, enough so that my mind actually recognized that they were using words. The infected didn't speak.

I never apologized to that soldier, or any of them. I meant my actions, I meant to kill him. That he wasn't an infected like I thought didn't matter. In that moment I meant my actions, and I wouldn't apologies for doing exactly what I meant to do.

I wanted to live, why should I apologies for that.

I'm better enough now to recognize that these people aren't infected. But I'm not 'better', I still have this tension in me. It's like my finger is on the trigger, if someone bumps me wrong it's going to make me squeeze.

I knew all this right when she told me what options I had, and for the last several hours I've know it, over and over in my head.

I left that office, and I found my way here. The park, that no longer stands up to its name, Jubilee Park. It sits over a subway tunnel, and I sit over that, resting on my back on the side of what once held a small series of fountains.

The stone brick walls that held the water are now filled only with the remaining stains of dried sludge. The water must have evaporated a long time ago, and even the pumps of the fountain are in disrepair, no doubt made useless by rust. I don't care though.

I came here just to get away from the people. Not many have an interest in a dead park after all.

It was nice, for a while, being away from the crowds. But I think it is time for me to head back into them. The hour the curfew sets in is getting closer and forcing my hand.

I don't want to go back to that room and see what I know will be sets of hopeful eyes, so if I am going to do that I need to come up with something else.

They did mention a pub.

* * *

Hope you liked it, and I didn't take to long getting it up. things have been a little busy lately so please bear with me. I have things going on in my life, plus THREE stories i am working on (and that doesn't even include my idea's for more). well, if you feel so inclined leave a review to express your appreciation and until next chapter, over and out.


	7. Chapter 7

I do not own the 28 days/weeks later series. I would be very rich, and it would have been very different if I did. But I don't. I only own Cassandra.

* * *

"Whew" The first word isn't so much a word is a low whistle coming through the headset and into my ear. Its the kind of sound that implies whatever inspired it was something awe inspiring or surprising enough to be impressive. Hopefully impressive enough to make the end of my shift somewhat less mind numbing.

"What you got Philips?" I ask before anyone else can, setting the butt of the gun into my shoulder, half expecting and hoping for a visual to go with the words he is about to speak.

"Drunk and disorderly in progress at the pub."

That, according to the multitude of responses, was exactly what we were hoping for. I hear a small chorus of yeah's and alrights, a woho, fight! a small series of bets, and even a complaint that they couldn't see anything, in the time it to me too switch positions so I could actually get a view of the pubs entrance is well.

I find that last statement to be true is well. I can see the pub, but whatever is going on must be inside still because no one is out in front of it. That's mildly disappointing, and I'm not the only one who thinks so.

"Come on man, tell them to bring the bastard outside, if there gonna rough him up at least let us watch."

The reply we get makes us all shut up. "Its a her." The idea that the first drunk and disorderly in the district is a woman apparently is enough of a shock to our expectations that we forget how to talk, at least for a few seconds.

Than we remember the ability in earnest. The call goes up for details, like whether it is just one woman or two? Is there hair pulling? Clothes ripping? Kissing, please let there be kissing? Is she pretty? What's she look like? What are her dimensions? The kind of questions you would expect from a bunch of bored soldiers, or soldiers in general.

He ignores the idea of answering them individually, instead just recaps the situation we still can't see which is enough to satisfy some, and disappoint others.

Apparently whoever this woman is she consumed enough for the bartender too cut her off, something that wasn't very appreciated, and lead to an argument, but no violence. She was told to go back to her room, which also lead to the current problem apparently.

She had her ID when she came to the pub, because she had to have it scanned to prove her age before she could even begin ordering drinks, but it seems somewhere in the course of the evening she lost it. A fact that came to the light after she almost threw up in a trash can, and now she won't tell them her name and they can't figure out where she's housed.

The only thing they can get out of her is that she hates soccer players. The rest of the men find that terribly amusing, but it leaves me rather silent, with a growing smirk. _Well damn... I suppose that's one way to do it._

I'll give the woman credit, if she really has so much trouble in paradise I suppose that getting so drunk the MP's have to put her in detox for the night might seem like a good idea. Which is probably what they are going to do, take her to lock up to sleep it off. They kind of have to with the fact her ID is missing.

which I find that a little strange. With the lack of currency at the moment they are just monitoring purchases by putting them on your ID for now, to pay back later when the financial system gets back on its feet, that means EVERY PURCHASE has to be scanned. _So how did she keep drinking with no ID, unless... clever girl._

My respect for her determined level of craftiness gets sidetracked by the conversation still continuing about the mystery woman in the pub. The accent speaking gives away exactly who it is, a southern boy by the name of Higgins, and one who can't understand what the problem is because he thought all British broads were into soccer players.

My response to that earns quite a bit of amusement from the rest of the guys. "Well why don't you ask her Higgins, Who knows, maybe she's into pig farmers, girls do love a man who can treat his animals right after all." I even go so far is to say it in a butchered southern accent too, making the poor guys embarrassment that much worse. Not that I'm too concerned, I mean I did do it on purpose

All in all, considering when this conversation started I was hoping for it to lift some of the boredom, I'd say it did. Now finally my time is up, my shift watching empty streets is over, and I pack up my stuff, setting up the area for the next guy. A mixed African Spaniard named Alvarez.

I got more important things on my mind at the moment, and is my replacement comes into view I offer him a smirk and a 'enjoy the conversation, its a good one tonight' I had to the stairs. however my radio chatter isn't quite done for the evening, it just gets switched to a private one. "Flynn, you got eyes on this thing?" I ask, knowing if anyone has a decent view its that fly jockey in his helicopter.

"Why? What you gonna give me?" Is the answer I get back, and it makes me stop my steps a little and chuckle. "Shit, what you want? Booze? Lessons in that trick your wife loves so much? Higgins pet pig for a few hours?!"

"...You are a sick son of a bitch Doyle, you know that?" This time the chuckle is a genuine laugh. "Yeah yeah yeah, so you got eyes or not? They take her too detention yet or what?"

"Yeah, their walking her out now. Why? You know who she is or something." I shake my head just out of habit is reach the bottom of the stairwell and reenter the night air. "Not really..." I shoot back, pressing one finger too the ear piece well the other fishes for my cigarettes. "But if I'm right I will soon. I'll let you know." Right now I got a trash can too find.

* * *

WooHoo! Look at that, I made a Doyle chapter! Huzzah! So progress is being made, and it looks like we are one step closer to the official meet and greet. Peave a review and let me know what you think please.


	8. Chapter 8

I still do not own the 28 days/weeks series, but I retain al rights to my OC Ccassandra.

* * *

"Sir" I can almost hear the salute accompanying that abrupt and unwelcome word. I'm pretty sure I told that annoying private to shut up. Or at least I know I thought about it.

The voice that responds is new and has a bit of a chuckle in it. "At ease kid. I'm off duty." It sounds just a little familiar too, but isn't important enough for me to care out it beyond my headache. "So what do we got?"

That is annoying, because I know that question is about me, and it means two things. First, whoever this jerk is thinks its okay to talk about me like I'm not laying right here on this uncomfortable bench, behind these annoying unbreakable bars, and cut off from my precious liquor. And of course, second, since he is asking questions about me he isn't likely to just go away.

"A very belligerent Mexican." I mutter under my breath, half surprised when the first syllable of a response from the private cuts itself off at the sound of my voice. My hearing must be a little off from the alcohol in my veins. I didn't think I had spoken that loud, not that I care all that much.

There's a pause, but then my hope is crushed when whoever this new man in the room is lets out a laugh. "Mexican huh, well I can work with that, so Miss Mexico. What are you in for hmm?" Oh bloody hell, why can't he just get the hint and piss off?

Whoever this guy is he seems to ranks higher than the young man guarding me, so its very unlikely he will be told to leave. He also doesn't seem to have any inclination to leave on his own. So with those two facts clear in my far too sober mind, I finally decide to give in and roll over.

I had been very content to hide my face in the corner and wait for the morning to come, but apparently I have somehow become this evenings entertainment instead. That was not what I wanted when I started drinking this evening.

Turning my body to its other side I push up off the bench into a seated position, my legs kicking out over the edge and resting in an unladylike manner, because I just don't care, and my back leaning against the solid brick of the wall behind me is I settle into a reclining sort of lounge positon.

The man who has so far only bothered my ears now is visible to my eyes. He's got the typical military style to his brown hair on a head with strong features like a broad nose and a squared chin. He has a mild tan complexion for a caucasian, and framing the bridge of his nose are a set of smirking hazel eyes to match the smirking stance of his mouth is he observes me studying him.

"Look, whatever rank you are..." I pause to locate the nametag I know must be there somewhere. "...Doyle." His smirk only grows at my odd way of addressing him, which unfortunately makes it less likely I'll be able to get rid of him with this mini speech I'm about to deliver.

"I was having a bad day before a bunch of you took my booze and fed me enough charcoal to make me sick. So unless you're here to give me something to drink, I'd rather get to know the bench some more if you don't mind."

I was half expecting that my irritation wouldn't succeed in driving him off, but despite that the reaction he gives me is actually a surprise. He lets out a small snort and produces the shape of a small green tin can from one of his vest pockets, the object enveloped in his hand and held out toward me.

I blinked a grand total of five times, just looking at the small but obviously liquid container. Is this man actually giving me a beer? is it even a beer? I can't quite tell just because his hand is covering enough of it that I cant make out any labels or logo's. "Want me to open it for you too." He jokes when my hesitation extends to much for him.

That earns him something of a glare, but its mixed with a smirk. He's playing with me. I find that oddly entertaining. He's the first one since I was rescued to actually do that.

Sure there were some civilians at the refugee camp that would try approach me because they thought I was pretty, but they abandoned that pursuit quickly due to my personality and the fact that there were women just is attractive and more willing for them to go after.

There was also the occasional soldier who was a little too eager to be helpful, but those stopped to after I gained a reputation of reporting them for sexual harassment.

Not this one though. He isn't at all put off by my 'warm and fuzzy' exterior, in fact I'd say he's been enjoying himself so far.

I take the can.

* * *

I can tell she is annoyed by my presence, which I understand. After all they treated her with activated charcoal. It may have cleared her stomach of whatever she drank and sobered her up, but I imagine the vomiting left her with a sore stomach and a headache. I'd be annoyed after that too.

But I can tell she finds this amusing and maybe a bit interesting is well by the sarcastic smirk tugging just a little bit at the edge of her lips.

With the can in her hand she quickly spins it around to identify what exactly I offered her. A few things flash through her eyes in the second that follows. Confusion, understanding, disappointment and amusement. Than in the second after that she holds it out to me again, handing the ginger ale back. "I'd rather have tequila."

She tosses the can to me, which I catch easily enough, mildly impressed that she got it to clear the bars without any problem. But then it is her turn to switch expressions because of what I do.

With the can of pop now back in my hand I let out another chuckle before standing up to go to the desk.

I don't even bother asking the private to get them for me, if I did that it would run the joke. Instead I just reach in the draw and pull out a roll of tape and a black marker. The makeover is finished quickly enough, is well is a little extra.

When I turn back to her I have a can of 'tequila' in one hand, and a plastic bottle of painkillers labeled 'taco bell' in the other.

"Your very persistent." Is the reply she gives me after she lets out a tiny laugh. My only answer to that is "Yes ma'am I am."

* * *

So there is another chapter to the story, and the wish of seeing how she reacts to Doyle answered, at least a little. Was it good? Is that about what you wanted? PLease leave a review to let me know that you think.


	9. Chapter 9

I still own nthing of the 28 days/weeks later series, but I do own my antisocial OC Cassandra.

* * *

"...Menha beas..." Those were the first 'words' I heard is I was waking up, and even well I was doing it I was vaguely aware that I wasn't hearing them right. My mind was turning back on, but my ability to translate the meaning of syllables into language hadn't turned back on yet.

"...Miss Bell?..." It has now though, and I'm almost upset about that because it means I really am waking up. It isn't like I have anything worth waking up for anyways. All I have to look forward is four more days until my life uproots itself again, though I guess I should be grateful that it didn't actually have time to root itself to begin with.

"Yes, sir, room 286, level ..." I know that voice. _...Bollocks..._ its my 'not husband', Howard. He is talking with the soldier on guard duty, whose voice doesn't sound like either of them last night. Not the private with a volume control issue or the guy who brought me 'tequila and taco bell'.

Is annoying is his presence was I cant deny that the ginger ale and aspirin were appreciated. Throwing up the charcoal they fed me only gave me a head and stomach ache on top of the one I already had from the forced hangover. _Oh those were definitely appreciated._

_I also appreciated it when he left though. _Nothing against the guy, he was probably some of the best company I've had in a while..._which is a very depressing thought actually. _My life has become so messed up that sitting miserable in a prison cell and being the nights entertainment for a stranger is even a candidate for one of my best times in recent history.

Also calling myself the 'nights entertainment' makes me sound a little like I just compared myself to some back alley whore. My thoughts are more colorful then usual, I think I still might be a little buzzed.

That just wonderful, really, considering whose presence I'm in. What is he even doing here anyways? It isn't like I told him where I was going to be or anything. Though then again, there's not a whole lot of late night options in terms of places I could be after curfew if I wasn't in the room.

I hope he didn't spend the evening looking for me or something, it would have just been a waste of his time if he did find me. The whole idea was that he didn't know where I was, and that they didn't tell him.

That's why I ditched the ID in the trash can when I half pretended to be sick. People have a tendency to avert their eyes when a woman's bent over a bucket heaving her guts out.

I thought it would buy me time away from him. I also thought it worked, I mean they spent a while trying to get my name out of me before they gave up and tossed me in here for the night. Which leads to the observation of why I heard my name a second ago.

I know I heard it too. A persons name is one of the first strings of sounds they learn. Its identified no matter the voice, accent, or amount of background noise that accompanies it. Its just something your ears recognize, just like they recognize the words I hear next. "well, it locks like your free to go miss."

I don't respond, I don't even move with the exception of the fact I'm breathing and blinking. I'm at an emotional impasse is the soldier on the other side of the bars unlocks the cage and holds the door open for me, finally meeting my eyes is he waits for me to stand up and leave.

I do of course because I have no other choice, and also because I've overcome that impasse, and am kind of mad.

Its not a rational response, and I cant even really begin to come up with a justifiable explanation is to why I feel this way. I'm just angry, because it seems people are making choices for me again.

Even is I do it I can see my actions from an observers lense, and knowingly acknowledge that they are a bit childish, but that doesn't stop me from storming over to the door leading out of the detention center, and wrenching the door open with more force then necessary before stomping through it.

"Wait!" I don't know why I do this either, but hearing that word I follow its meaning, and stop. I should have kept walking in truth, because I didn't have to stop. Its not the soldier who said that word. Its Howard.

He jogs up behind me, and to my almost disappointed disbelief I can see him breathing with a bit of heaviness. If I had any questions about what ordeals he went through to be here today I have answers to them now. He didn't, and I actually feel a little hate form toward him because of that. It must be so nice to get to come back in the aftermath.

"What do you want Howard." My distaste is all but dripping of those words, but I have no concern about it and make no attempt to keep it out.

"I, uh, I" Though given the way he pulls back a little I perhaps should in the future. He looks like he half expects a physical confrontation to happen any second now. I may not be here much longer, but its till a bad idea to earn the attention of the soldiers. Especially in that regard.

"I thought you'd want this." He finishes, regaining his ability to speak evenly is he realizes I'm not going to punch him.. But my attention isn't really on his words so much is the object in his hand. Its a deja vu moment. He is holding out my ID card again. The little plastic rectangle swaying mockingly on the end of its lanyard.

I know the words I should say to that, but instead what comes out is a flat "where did you get that?" After all, last time I saw that it was being hidden under a half devoured order of barbeque chicken fingers.

"Uh..." His ability to speak seems to suffer again, and he evne looks at me a little confused, which I mirror soon is well. "...well, it was hanging on the door..."

The expression of confusion drifts back to a neutral one is my brow looses its tension, but then it regains it in another way. I can feel my lips pull into a tight line is my eyes drift closed. _That bastard._

I didn't really think about it till now because of stress and a high blood alcohol count, but there must have been a reason he showed up other then to just show up. I mean, if bugging the prisoners was something soldiers did on a regular basis he wouldn't have been the only one.

"...with a note." That last bit cuts off my thought. _A note... _"What did it say?"

The question was obvious, of course I would want to know that, but once again Howard seems unsure how to answer. He comes to a decision though when he notices me raise a brow in impatience. "Well, it said 'Jose or Patron? Does that mean something to you?"

"..." _you MUST be kidding me._ "It does." I say with a sigh before I hold out my hand for the piece of plastic, trying not to let a smirk over take my lips. _Persistence._

* * *

_So there's another chapter for you to enjoy. Please leave a review._


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